


whereabouts unknown

by elliptical



Series: to own a galaxy [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sgrub Session, Body Horror, Claustrophobia, Gen, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Panic Attacks, Sensory Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 11:51:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5289647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elliptical/pseuds/elliptical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You've done your research on helming, you've been learning the history and science since before you told FF you wanted to be her ship.</p><p>This is not a normal helm and something is very, very wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	whereabouts unknown

**Author's Note:**

> au steadily gets more fucked up, what else is new  
> mind tags  
> no one's actually dead  
> what the hell is happening here?? sollux sure doesn't know
> 
>  
> 
> _even together, we stand apart_  
>  _swallow the sun, erase the sky_  
>  _an invitation that's been declined_  
>  _where did you go? where did you go?_  
>  _no whereabouts unknown_  
>  _please know you can come home_  
>  _it's all right_  
>  _-whereabouts unknown, rise against_

Your name is Sollux Captor, and you're drowning.

You open your eyes only to discover that most of your body is missing - no, not missing - maybe missing? - you can't find the nerve stimuli you need. Your eyelids are accounted for, and presumably your eyes too, though the inky darkness makes you unsure. When you try to light up in an automatic reaction to the disorientation, blue-red opacity flares in front of your face before dying off.

You're surrounded by water, which you can tell because of the pressure on your body and the cold. Pressure, chest, ribcage, blood pusher and - there, your lungs realize you're encased by liquid and spasm in panic. Dumbass fucking lungs trying to draw in air, now you're just going to drown faster, your chest is so much heavier than it should be and there's water inside you already and you're drowning, drowning, have to find the rest of your body so you can swim upupup break the surface get out but which way is up which way is UP

your lungs spasm again, a foreign intrusion in your thorax responds without your input, and oh. You aren't drowning.

...Okay. You are surrounded by and filled with fluid, but you aren't suffocating. The dizziness you're experiencing is a side effect of panic. There is still oxygen being pumped from your lungs into your blood into the farthest reaches of your body, and you choke down the terror, forcing rational thought. You're having a day terror. Sleep paralysis is no stranger to you, but usually the hallucinations aren't quite so vivid. No matter. You just need to picture the blood flowing into your limbs until you can locate - locate - there, wiggle the tip of a pinky finger, wiggle one toe, get your body back under your control and climb out of your 'coon. Dumbass, idiot dumbass, idiot moron bulgelicking assface, you must have sunk under the sopor. If the universe is kind, there will be no one in your hivestem to witness your disoriented surfacing.

Your body does not want to cooperate.

All you need to do is clear the surface, you remind yourself. As soon as your head breaks the sopor and you cough the sludge out of your lungs, you can start your night. In the meantime panic is not conducive to -

oh god, why is there a tube in your mouth.

In hindsight, you should probably have registered this already. The surface is rubbery and uncomfortable on your tongue, and your jaw aches, and you can feel your fangs clenching down on the surface but only making tiny indents. Fuck, it hurts. When you try to move your head, you gag, throat spasming like your chest just was.

This is. Okay. This is concerning.

Fuck, what happened? Unless this is an even more vivid hallucination than you thought, you're starting to get the sick feeling that you might not be in your 'coon. Everything in your head is muddier than it should be, but adrenaline rushes usually make you sharp. There was... there was...

drones armies adult trolls screaming rubble red blue arcing running flying falling FUCK

You lash out with your psionics but you still can't see and they're not, they're not, not responding, should have realized that earlier too, no wonder you're disoriented - soporifics always dampen your powers and your spatial awareness gets fucked up in liquid to begin with so you suppose it wasn't as obvious as it should have been. Your eyes flared fine a minute ago even if you couldn't see, which means your powers aren't shut off entirely. They just aren't moving where you say, which means they're being redirected, which means...

Okay. Okay. Okay. You're formulating a new theory. Your whole body seizes with panic before you can stop it, and you fight to swallow another flare of power. Panic is not conducive to rational thought, panic is not conducive to a plan, panic is not conducive to escape. Panic robs a troll of every reasoning skill they need in a crisis, which is why fear is such an effective weapon. You're not going to be a slave to your instincts.

1) You're in an incubation tank while your body adjusts to the shock of being retrofitted, which means  
2) you've been retrofitted in the first place, which means  
3) you're royally fucked, but you still have arms and legs, so you guess you could be more royally fucked.

This oxygenated goop is probably full of soporifics and painkillers to keep you from going into cardiac arrest. If you want to escape, you'll have to find some way to pull yourself out of the tank and plan from there. But depending on how long it's been since the surgery - fuck, how long has it been since they tore you out of your hivestem, you can't tell and the memories keep surfacing and they're not conducive to a plan either - depending on how long it's been since the surgery, the pain of climbing out might literally give you a heart attack. Or make you shit yourself and pass out until guards can dose you on heavier soporifics and put you back under. You're pretty sure psions aren't meant to wake in their incubation tanks, but this might just be another side effect of your freaky fun brain.

You raise your hand through the muck to see if you can find the surface. This blindness is a whole new level of discomfort that you haven't explored, except for the few times you and FF and TZ played with dampeners. With your psionics at your disposal, you'd be able to sense the dimensions of the tank without moving at all. Even with your eyesight, you're prone to smacking face-first into walls and stumbling everywhere if you try to move with dampeners on, which is going to make the escape even more difficult.

The backs of your fingers brush something that is definitely not glass, just above your body. For a second you think you've miscalculated and you really are in your 'coon, because the surface has the same soft suppleness, but no - the texture is wrong. You paw at it. Smooth, gently curved, but slippery like the roof of your mouth. You push your fingers into it to see if there's any give and experience nothing but a warm, nauseating pulsing.

This isn't an incubation tank. This thing is _organic._

Another spasm of panic seizes your chest. No bioware you've ever heard of is calibrated like this, and if you were already jacked into a ship then you'd have all of the sensory data input from the neurals. You've done your research on helming, you've been learning the history and science since before you told FF you wanted to be her ship. Incubation tanks are made of glass, like fucked up aquariums, no organic component to them. Bioware is a combination of organic and manufactured matter, but every configuration you've ever heard of is more like ropy tendrils than...

You lay your palm flat and trace the curve. It meets another plane to both your left and right, your back supported against the same material, sensory input only trickling in now that you're seeking it. The surface is seamless, closed around you, bare inches of space above and beside your body. It's... some sort of organic pod, and claustrophobic terror wraps cold fingers around your chest. You feel for your chin and find the tube in your mouth, trace it to the surface above your head. It's melded into the pod, part of it, same material, same -

You grab it and try to yank it out, psionics firing off at random as fight-flight-freeze instincts desperately war within you. So much for rationality and planning. If you don't get your psionics under control and tear your way out of whatever the fuck this Thing is (what the fuck is it nothing like this has ever come up in your research is it a kept Empire secret or did they drop you into the ocean and wait for you to be eaten by something are you dead what if you're dead and for some reason your consciousness is still fuck fuck fuck), you're going to have a panic attack to end all panic attacks.

The tube in your mouth doesn't budge, but feelers unfold from the surface and wrap around your wrist, and that's about when you start screaming.

It's soundless thanks to the fluid in your body, and the frantic contraction of your muscles doesn't prompt any further movement. You let the energy build up behind your eyes and release, aiming to tear a hole above you, but all you do is daze yourself with red and blue and make zero actual impact. When you try to spark off your fingers or toes or let the power course through your chest, the current hums through your nerves and redirects, and you can feel it fizzle in your spine like blood thrumming back through a limb that had lost circulation.

It doesn't matter how powerful you are, because you no longer have the ability to direct your psionics on your own. This means:

1) You have indeed been retrofitted, and  
2) this thing is jacked into your spinal ports and siphoning your power like a helmsrig, which means  
3) you're here on purpose, and  
4) if they don't need a helmsrig then it's possible this is permanent, and you're going to be trapped in here forever.

You're being _digested._

\---

The memories are clearer now. You knew it was over when the drones landed outside your hivestem. You and all of your neighbors were (are? fuck, you really don't know how much time has passed) too young for filial contribution, and there were adults with the drones, the first adults you'd seen in close proximity. You'd been preparing for the possibility of early conscription, soldiers showing up to take you and the other psions in the stem by surprise before any of you could think about running. You and FF had a plan to make sure you wouldn't get lost in the systems before she ascended the throne, a plan to escape, a plan for protection.

(She asked you once if you had a second contingency plan for if she lost her challenge. You said yes. She didn't press because she was smart enough to know she didn't want details, but she was giving you too much credit. Your contingency plan wasn't to wreak havoc on the Empire and destroy yourself in some creative rebellious way. Your contingency plan was to turn yourself in, become a ship, and forget troll emotion ever mattered. If you'd known there was this kind of alternative, you might have considered other options.)

They came too early. They caught you by surprise even though you'd been determined to outsmart them, because you are a stupid arrogant child and you thought you could stand against the Empire that's been the galaxy's backbone for as long as anyone remembers. You fought with everything you had in you, but tranquilizer guns are a powerful force and you probably shattered every rib in your body when you hit the ground, you wonder if that's healed or if you're still injured and just can't feel it.

You don't know _why_ they came so early. You're the best hacker you know, your communications were done in person where they could be and encrypted and hidden to hell and back when they couldn't. And you are a stupid arrogant child, but your arrogance isn't without merit. It's hard to find people who can beat you in terms of technological prowess, even within the adult Fleet. They couldn't have known the extent of your plans with FF -

\- but couldn't they? It would explain why you're trapped in this thing, some kind of twisted punishment for treason against the current regime, as though it would be too dangerous to hook you into a battleship despite the aptitude tests. Joke's on them, ahahaha, because if they did the programming right you're sure you'd be the best goddamn ship they'd ever seen but they're not even going to give you a chance, and -

\- if FF wins her challenge then she'll come find you, wherever you are. But who knows how long that will take, or how long it's been already? How long have you been asleep? The army came early. The drones came early, if they came early for you then they might have come early for everyone, and who's to say FF's lusus kept her safe long enough to have a fair challenge, she could have been stabbed in the back and if soldiers showed up outside KK's hive -

The despair hits you so hard all of your muscles go limp, eyes closing. You have no idea what's happening outside this pod, why you're in here, if you'll ever be able to find out. How many of your friends were really prepared for conscription? You needed more time, you were all banking on having more time, and the Empire took you by surprise to make sure its Heiress had no support network. If the drones came for you then they came for the others.

There's a good chance all your friends are dead already.

You want your lusus. You haven't regarded your lusus as anything more than a nuisance for sweeps, but the yearning opens in your chest, swallows you before you can choke it back. It's fine. It's okay. It's not like there's anyone you have to keep your shit together for here, and you want your lusus, you want to be small and curled up in his warmth and secure in your safety, lost in the nights before you figured out how high everything in this world was stacked against you.

He died on the roof when the drones came. Your bees too, probably, and most of the neighbors, hivestem reduced to rubble. But you're immobile in a disgusting prison, swallowed and fed on and the world doesn't matter in here and god dammit you can want your lusus and your bees and your friends. God dammit. God fucking dammit dammit dammit you didn't even send a message to warn them, you didn't even call for help you stupid fucking worthless arrogant piece of _shit. Look at me, world, I'm Sollux Captor and I'm so tough I can take down an Imperial army by my own damn self at eight sweeps old, fuck everyone._

The tendrils around your wrist release when you stop fighting. Your own screams stop at about the same time, exhaustion sinking into your bones. You're cognizant enough to register the signs that come before an epic downswing, but haha, you don't really have to chart your moods anymore because remembering to eat and sleep and piss isn't relevant, and all your friends are dead. Mania in here is going to make you legitimately fucking crazy, but you don't need to panic about that yet. Just one thing at a time. Let the pod siphon your psionics, let your body rest, let your mind wander. It's not like you can do anything else.

You breathe out a stream of fluid, inhale, oxygenate. It doesn't hurt, not now that your body understands it isn't drowning.

It doesn't hurt at all.


End file.
